irisDearly beloved I kissed your trunk I rested my forehead against it, the bark, the moss, the thought of fog to come, do I fill the space exactly to your dimensions am I at rest no not at all not at all, that redwood and the snow in the hills in late spring and early summer turning dark red when the melting freed up enough nutrients for the algae to grow. The river through the canyon was overflowing that day I could see it with my ears alone. Since I moved I've had dreams of it flooding two more times, the clouds still in the sky, lightning scar black through me, what a strange thing I've done can I say a prayer raining and what ends when what ends ends by which I want to know can I say a prayer for the prayers I have yet to make all slipping away from me helixing upwards in the smoke. Heaven+locative suffix. I kissed you in California years ago now and too the silhouette of a willow weeping over that lily pond. I kissed you in California even if I was balanced on my left ankle at a pathetic angle, one perfect minute, fire escape, learning to walk again, Christ in my palm, a thousand perfect minutes, on my knees in California, tearing towards the sea, wooden castle, damp leaves, the wet shining freshly hosed down concrete floor of the outdoor fish market, glimmering as scales of its own, blinding sun off every surface, the world in a turned over glass a three day dead spider hanging suspended in the corner of the window head slightly turned away from me listening for its name again, still fawn-spotted, sunlight coming through, the kiss of life, by which I mean what I would pray for at seven watching the spider crawl across the ceiling of my childhood bedroom. There are things I remember so incorrectly so faithfully that I can close my eyes and hear wind chimes. That river. From far off
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